


The Secret

by ziskandra



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dark Ritual Discussion, F/M, Love Realisation, Pillow Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/pseuds/ziskandra
Summary: The words spill out of him before he can arrange them into something more coherent.“Anora, I think I might have a child.”(Or: in which Alistair Theirin realises he loves his wife.)
Relationships: Alistair/Anora Mac Tir
Comments: 30
Kudos: 62
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	The Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gamerfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamerfic/gifts).



Alistair might have spent the better part of his youth in a Chantry, but even he knows that stamina in the bedroom is a favoured trait for men. Emphasis on the _for men_ , because Anora looks exhausted when Alistair’s cock hardens for the fourth time tonight.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he says, doing his best to turn his erection away, prevent it from pressing against his wife’s bare leg. Once upon a time, in the earlier days of their marriage, Anora would have fixed Alistair with a withering glare, so reminiscent of her father’s sharp features that Alistair would have immediately softened anyhow.

Tonight, however, she simply waves a hand in front of her face, as though dismissing Alistair’s apology as superfluous.

“It’s fine,” she assures him, curling one slender arm over his bare stomach. Expelling a gentle huff of amusement, she adds, “Flattering, even. Although, I think three attempts might suffice for today.”

Alistair is torn between two different responses, but the outcome is the same. He doesn’t want Anora to feel as though she’s compelled to lie with him; he wants her to desire him, perhaps even love him. He intertwines his fingers with those of Anora’s spare hand, knowing that she’ll accept the gesture now instead of jerking angrily away.

Voice canting low, in that jokey way of his that he can’t seem to prevent when he’s expressing vulnerabilities, he tells her, “Er. You know this isn’t just about getting you pregnant as quickly as possible, right?” His cock twitches.

It is a slow process, what has grown between them. There was a time where Anora could barely look at him as they did their duty, Alistair so palpably aware that she blamed the Wardens for the death of her father. Alistair might not have been the one to swing the blade, but he suspects Anora knows he wouldn’t have hesitated had he been required to do so.

Now, however… They do not sleep with each other every night, in either sense of the word, but they have been seeking each other’s company out more regularly of late. They both have a mutual understanding of the situation they find themselves in. They have built up a sense of kinship, trust. It is difficult to confide in others. 

It has been a long time since Elissa had returned Alistair’s letters.

The way Anora allows him to hold her at night shows Alistair that the trust is mutual, and the realisation makes his gut churn in discomfort, because he’s still keeping secrets from her. _The Secret_ , or so he likes to think about it.

Anora sighs, rolls over to face him, intertangling her legs with his despite the insistence of his persistent erection. “It would be easier for us both if I were,” she sighs. Even though Alistair might wish Anora could let go and enjoy their relations simply for what they were, he can understand why pregnancy is at the forefront of her mind. She is over thirty years of age, and with each passing year, her chances of conceiving dwindle. Couple that fact with the Taint that runs through Alistair’s blood and, well… It’s possible they mightn’t have any children at all. What happens to their country if they leave behind no heir? More political machinations, another civil war?

A few years ago, back in another lifetime, Alistair wouldn’t have cared so much. He’d been a templar-in-training, then a Warden; the threats that threatened to destroy them all had been larger and yet more surmountable somehow.

Now, he is the King of Ferelden and the stakes are lower and yet far more daunting.

Perhaps it’s because he now has more to lose. That, or he simply wants Arl Eamon to stop sending him letters providing instructions on how to best pleasure his wife. Honestly, he’d happily accept a solution to either problem now. Anora’s pregnancy would be a viable solution to them both.

Thinking of Eamon makes Alistair’s gut roil in discomfort once more. He doesn’t think anybody but Elissa knows of the babe, of what he and Morrigan had done to ensure no Warden sacrifice would be necessary at the battle. But what if Eamon found out? 

Alistair knows better than anyone that the Arl is not above using innocent children in his political machinations.

That’s why he had kept The Secret well, _secret_ , for so long. Yet, if there was anyone who could confide in, it was Anora. And really, Anora deserved to know the truth. Didn’t she? He drew in a deep breath and gave his wife’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he starts, feeling his heart hammer in his chest and a lump form in his throat as he tries to eke The Secret out from the place deep inside of him, where he had pushed it down.

Anora snuggles up to him sleepily, pressing her chest against his. He can feel her tits through the thin material of her nightdress – they hadn’t removed in this evening, had been in too much of a rush. Maker, had it really only been two hours (if that!) since they had retired to his bedchamber?

“I know you slept in for that council meeting,” Anora assures him, and Alistair blinks because he hadn’t realised that hadn’t been public knowledge. It’s not like he’d made any excuses. Not really.

“No. It’s…” Maker, he wishes he didn’t have to go through with this. It’s an uncomfortable memory at best and a threat to national security at worst. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

Nonetheless, Anora responds with more kindness than he deserves. “Nor was I, at the beginning.” Alistair knows what she means by that: when they had first married, she’d told him that she’d never loved Cailan, had barely regarded him with affection at all.

He knows that’s a lie now, even though they’d never discussed the topic in great detail at all. They hadn’t needed to. Alistair was no stranger to the concept of comforting deception. He swallows thickly, and then the words spill out of him before he can arrange them into something more coherent.

“Anora, I think I might have a child.”

Anora is silent at first. Too silent. If it wasn’t for the unmistakable way she clenches in his arms he might have thought she hadn’t heard him at all. Her grip on his hand is almost painful. He wants for her to say anything at all, a reprimand or forgiveness or anything in between. Warmth pricks the corner of his eyes and he hates the way it makes him feel.

Finally, Anora speaks. “What do you mean, you _might_?”

It’s a fair question, all things considered. He really hadn’t phrased that right. How was he meant to go about it? _I participated in some black magic ritual because it might save my life and the life of the woman I love and it did but now we can’t be together anyway?_ He draws a shaky breath and when he answers his voice feels like it’s coming from the ceiling; distant and far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“How much do you know about the Wardens?”

*

Anora holds him as he weeps throughout the tale, and for that, he’s grateful. He doesn’t know what he would have done if she had mocked him, called him names, told him he was stupid for thinking he deserved a happy ending. Instead, she listens, stroking a comforting arm down his back as he weaves the tale, leaving nothing out.

He no longer wants to keep secrets from Anora.

Once all is said and done, Anora is far from any danger of falling asleep, her eyes shrewd and calculative as he can all but see the foundations of a plan forming in her mind. Alistair had hated when he’d seen the same expression on Loghain’s face, but now… now he finds he does not mind it. It’s the same look she wears at the council meetings, when a conundrum presents itself that must be handled with a particular delicacy that Alistair cannot entirely comprehend but is beginning to understand. 

“How difficult would it be,” Anora muses, twirl the ends of her hair around her finger, “to track this witch down?”

“You want to what,” Alistair squawks, because quite honestly he’d be happy to never see Morrigan again. And why would Anora want to hunt her down anyway? He hopes it’s not to murder the child. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Would she?

“Don’t you see?” Anora asks, eyes glittering. Upon realizing that Alistair very much _doesn’t_ , she elaborates. “If what she’s saying is true, then her magic might be able to resolve our problems.” She places the hand that’s holding Alistair’s onto the curve of her stomach and smiles.

 _Oh._ That’s a far more amenable resolution to their conversation. Their hands shift up towards Anora’s chest, laying still in the valley between her breasts. There, he can feel her heartbeat too. Unbidden, in his mind’s eye, he visualises his wife growing round with his child and he feels his stomach churn once more. It’s different this time, though. More… butterflies.

His wife is brilliant and smart and beautiful and he loves her.

Maker, he _loves_ her.

Once upon a time he would have been happy to die for Elissa, but now he finds himself grateful for this life, instead. He leans in to kiss Anora and she meets him more than halfway in the middle, capturing his lips with a hungry rumble as she hoists her hips against his thighs.

Looks like there might be a round four tonight after all.


End file.
